Fragments
by daryl-dixon's-poncho
Summary: In a world of perpetual sorrow and suffering, happiness is a luxury, and the simple word 'love' means more than ever before. A series of short Caryl drabbles to keep my fingers busy and imagination active. Only read if you're all caught up on the series.
1. Burden

**I've come to the conclusion to discontinue my other WIP, Linger.**

**This was not a decision hastily made, I will assure you that. I haven't had a lot of time on my hands as it as, and I'm a dreadfully slow writer, and trying to update regular, long chapters is really wearing on me. I had some really good ideas, but they just don't "right". **

**And then I decided that writing is supposed to be fun. It's something you're supposed to enjoy. And I really wasn't **_**enjoying**_** writing Linger. So to keep myself sane, and maintain my love of writing, I'm not going to be continuing it. **

**If you ever meet me, feel free to slap me upside the head, alright? I'll take it with gratitude. From now on, or at least until I get more time/motivation, I'm going to be sticking to drabbles and one shots. Anyway, sorry for the long and boring Author's Note. Enjoy! **

Carol had volunteered to take over watch duty so that Glenn and Maggie could rest up and have a bite to eat. She tugged on a coat and snatched up her gun and made her way to the guard tower. But before she could pass through the door and ascend the stairs, Daryl was loping up behind her, his crossbow slung over his shoulder, looking strangely less rugged in his leather sleeves.

"Hey," he called. She was still several yards ahead of him, and she turned to face him, holding a hand up to block the autumn sun from her eyes. "You mind if I join you?"

She smiled playfully, and placed a hand on her hip.

"Gettin' sick of babysittin' your brother, huh?"

He slowed his pace as he approached her, panting ever-so-slightly. Her smile softened.

"Of _course _I don't mind."

And it was true, too. She did like his company, even if he _was _painfully awkward at times. His mere presence would brighten the dullness of watch duty.

Neither said much to the other; just silently watched a few walkers stumble around in the leaf litter. The morning was crisp, as autumn mornings often were. It was a pleasant time of year, she thought; a season suspended between the bitter coldness of winter and sweltering hotness of summer. And then she suddenly remembered that it had been just shy of a year since she'd taken out her first walker.

He glanced over at her, and she was grinning.

"What's so funny?" he asked, staring off into the distance.

"Remember the first time I killed a walker?"

He felt his cheeks grow hot at the memory, and she laughed. Of _course_ he remembered. He'd never forget.

_The nights were getting longer and colder, and the days were often grey and sunless. The first snow had yet to fall, but the dew on the grass had turned to frost, and their breaths steamed in the air. Carol had finally gotten the hang of using a gun. _

_She and Daryl had just finished up another lesson, and they were trekking back to camp. The sky was bleak, and the trees were skeletons of their former selves. Her accuracy had seen a vast improvement, and she was slowly adjusting to the feel of the bulky, metal object in her hands. But despite her boosted morale, she had yet to actually kill anything. _

_She knew that moment would come soon enough, and when it did, she'd wish it hadn't. But she couldn't help but yearn to prove a point; to Daryl, and to herself. The night the farm fell, she'd told him she was a burden. And though he didn't say it aloud, she knew he agreed. _

_She wasn't going to be a burden anymore. She'd made a vow to do everything in her power not to be. But she just needed the chance show everyone that she meant it; that she could fight and contribute to their group just as much as anyone else. _

_And that chance came embodied as a single silhouette, shambling across the horizon. Daryl spotted it at the exact same time she did, and had his crossbow raised in the blink of an eye. But before he could squeeze the trigger, she reached out and laid a hand on his arm, pressing down gently, silently conveying the message to lower his weapon. _

_"I can do this," she whispered, and reluctantly, he backed down, and she stepped up. She raised her gun, her finger fixed on the trigger, waiting for the precise moment to fire. The walker hadn't noticed them yet, and its gaze was fixated on something in the distance. She wasn't at the right angle to penetrate its brain. So she took a risk, and whistled._

_The walker's head snapped over in their direction, and it gave a low, throaty growl. For just a split second, she was seized by a bolt of fear, and her blood froze in her veins. But then she took a deep breath, readjusted her grip on the gun, and remembered that Daryl was standing just beside her, and he wouldn't let any harm befall her._

_She fired, and her arm reared back at the sudden force. Her bullet sailed through the air, and buried itself in the flesh of the walker's neck. Her initial instinct was to be deterred, but there was no time to wallow in her failures. She reminded herself that it was only her first time; that she'd improve as she gained experience._

_She shot again, and obliterated the lower half of the walker's jaw. Blood and shattered bone splattered onto the grass. It was better, but not the best she could do. She readied her weapon once more, and squeezed the trigger, giving it her all. There was a flash of red, and the walker fell, lifeless, into the dirt, a crimson pool blooming under its head. _

_She turned to Daryl, grinning like a fool, her eyes brighter than he'd ever seen them before. He knew what she sought, so he gave it to her: he gave her a nod, and the tiniest upward curve of his lips. _

_It had been a signal of approval; a way to show her that he was proud of how far she'd come. But she seemed to take it as a cue, judging by the way she dashed forward, without a sliver of warning, and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. She was laughing, then, and he could not find it in him to push her away. So, having not a single clue where to put his hands, he just stood there, letting her hug him while he blushed profusely. _

_When she finally withdrew, he thought it was over, but she was not quite finished. She leaned up, balancing on her tippy-toes, and pecked him on the cheek. _

_"Thanks for teaching me," she said, backing away. She feared she might see disdain in his eyes. She realized only afterwards how many boundaries she'd crossed. But to her surprise, he wasn't glaring at her at alll. He looked vulnerable as hell, though._

_"You're welcome," he replied, his voice a shade softer and shyer than normal. She gave him one last smile before turning on her heel and leading the way back to camp. There was a hastiness to her gait. No doubt the gunshot had alerted every walker in the area of their presence._

_And only when she wasn't looking did he allow himself to reach up and touch the spot where she kissed him, as if he could merely brush it away. But he couldn't. That kiss was imprinted on his cheek for _life.


	2. Cold

It was cold. Not just nippy, either. It was absolutely _freezing_. A shiver racked Carol's body and she wiggled down deeper into her sleeping bag. Despite having on two pairs of thick wool socks, her toes were numb, and she couldn't even hear herself think over the sound of her chattering teeth. Their fire may as well have been a heap of lifeless ash.

She tortured herself by thinking of showers; of hot water streaming down her body, cleansing her skin of dirt and grime; of lathering up her short hair and scrubbing her heels. And after finishing, she'd emerge from the stall to a steamy bathroom, and wrap herself in a big, fluffy towel. Then she'd...

"Here."

Startled by the sudden gruff syllable, Carol's eyes snapped open, only to see some thick, itchy looking fabric looming in her face. She reached out and touched it. It felt something like a saddle blanket.

"What's this?"

Daryl didn't answer. Just stared down at her as she stared up at him, her brow furrowed. He let go of the fabric; let it fall limply to the ground. She picked it up and studied the pattern. Her eyes widened.

"This is _your_s," she stated, holding it out to him. "_You_ take it."

He snorted and turned on his heel. Began walking in the opposite direction, towards the shadowy treeline. It was time for him to switch shifts with T-Dog.

She smoothed her hands over the poncho. Its rough texture was not exactly enticing, but it was bulky and most certainly would take the edge off the cold.

The stitches were done in wobbly, uneven lines, and she knew immediately that he had tailored it himself. His fingers were not thin and nimble like hers, and he lacked greatly in experience. Still, the effort he'd put into it was admirable.

She tugged it on over her shoulders, unaware that she was grinning. But when she glanced over and saw Lori smirking up at her, shadows dancing across her face, she realized with embarrassment that she might've looked something like a lovesick teenager, and she blushed profusely.

She achieved sleep rather quickly that night. The poncho shielded her body from the biting winds, yes, but some inner warmth was born, at the very core of her being, that spread from the pit of her belly to her limbs, and then to her fingers and toes. It was a sort of comforting giddiness that she hadn't felt since high school. But more than that, it was the feeling of being alive; of being human. Most people these days were either dead or more stone than man.

So she closed her eyes, relaxed her muscles, and let the crackling fire and chorus of crickets lull her into a peaceful slumber.


	3. Angels Fall First

_"I'm sorry, but I can't stop the bleeding_

_Crying and its all because of you."_

Daryl remembered how he'd felt the day Carol went missing. Remembered the anger that had boiled up inside him, seethed through his veins and clouded his thoughts. Remembered how he had to push it all way - bury it deeper and deeper down inside him - and try to feign calmness and composure for the sake of the group.

He struggled to ignore it. Tried his best to move on. She was gone. Whether she was eaten, bitten, scratched or gnawed...that part didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was dead. He couldn't change that. He could've, if he'd been there for her...if he'd been there to protect her. But he hadn't. And so she died.

He knew damn well there was nothing to be done, and he wouldn't fool himself into thinking otherwise. So he made room for the grief, and trudged on.

But then he found that stupid knife, embedded in the walker's throat. She'd _fought_, he realized. She'd fought for her life. And those wounds he'd tried so hard to conceal split open and began bleeding all over again. He was forced to confront his pain, alone, in the cold tombs of the prison.

And then he found her. Weak and limp; a trembling shadow of the woman she used to be, but alive all the same. She would recover. She would press on. She would live to see another lurid dawn.

This time was different, though.

This time was for real.

Daryl cradled her head, his hand on her chest, applying as much pressure to the wound as he possibly could, but the colour was draining fast from her face and she was getting weaker by the second. Her mouth was slightly agape, and beads of sweat bloomed on her brow. There was a bullet hole in her chest, soaking her shirt, his hand, and the dirt beneath her with blood. Her time on earth was draining. He watched the life fade from her eyes.

"Daryl..." she rasped, looking up at him, though there was an unsettling blankness to her stare. "Daryl...don't leave..."

He ignored her pleas, determined to salvage her life, or what little of it was left. He wouldn't give up on her so easily. Not this time.

"We gotta get Hershel," he insisted, a sore knot forming in his throat. "He'll help you."

He went to stand, but she lurched forward with startling strength and latched onto his arm. She pulled him back down, and settled into the dirt once more.

"You can't risk it," she said. The weakness had returned. Her voice was strained, and she could scarcely form her words. "You gotta...let me go."

He blinked. Once, and once more. Then he shook his head vehemently.

"No. You ain't dyin'. I ain't gonna let you."

She smiled fraily.

"You know you can't do that. You know I'm dyin'. You know it an' I know it."

Then her fingers drifted over and curled around his; thin, feeble fingers, slick with blood. And the tears that he battled to keep behind his eyelids suddenly spilled over, and rolled down his cheeks; a hot, salty wetness that felt foreign on his skin.

"Let me go," she whispered. He would've bowed his head to keep her from seeing that he was crying, but he knew she wouldn't live to remember it. His gut twisted and his heart felt fit to burst.

And so he knelt there, for seemingly an eternity, clutching her hand like a lifeline while she slowly died. She didn't tear her gaze from him the entire time. And when she finally passed, there was a peacefulness playing on her lips.

Her eyes ceased to see, her ears ceased to hear, and she would never tease him again. She'd never shoot a gun again, or rock Judy to sleep in her arms again, or witness the squalling babe grow up. And he'd be damned if her body ever saw a proper burial, given the circumstances. Walkers had flooded the prison, and the group had been washed out like vermin. And no doubt the Governor and his men would strike again in a few days.

It wasn't fair. Not at all. But there was nothing to be done. All he could do was carefully close her eyes, press a timid kiss to her forehead, and raised his pistol to her temple.

It's what she would want, he reminded himself, and a single shot echoed across the prison yard.


	4. Rags

Woodbury.

Once it had been a symbol of hope in a bleak, lifeless, ruin of a world. It had been a promise of normalcy; a haven, some would have said. Far too good to be true.

Daryl paced the streets, scouring every nook and cranny for the rest of his group. So far, he'd found no one. Destruction was all there was to be seen. The air was thick and choking and metallic. The stink of death hung over the town like a cloak.

Night had fallen, and mists had stolen in. Everywhere he looked, he saw the silhouettes of the fallen - soldiers, civilians and walkers alike. The pavement was painted red with blood. There wasn't a living soul in sight.

Which made it all the more surprising when a puppy crawled out from a pile of wreckage.

It couldn't have been more than a few months old, and it was limping badly. It whined softly as it timidly crept forward, unsure of what to make of this large, crossbow-wielding hunter.

Daryl crouched down, awestruck, and offered his hand for sniffing. He cooed softly, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards when the little pup hesitantly licked his fingers.

The poor thing had a coat of blonde, matted fur, and he noticed a wound on its right hind leg. A cut, maybe, but certainly not a bite. It was wary of him at first, but after some gentle coaxing, Daryl managed to draw it close enough to where he could scoop it up in his arms.

The little creature was emaciated. Its skin was stretched far too tautly over its tiny bones, and he could feel its ribs jutting out in unnatural angles. The knots of its spine were painfully visible. He scratched it gently behind the ears, and it began to hungrily gnaw on his thumb. It weighed scarcely more than bundle of rags.

Daryl thought of Beth, and Carl, and Carol. He hadn't seen a hint of joy brighten their eyes in ages. They were back at prison, with Hershel and Judith. The old man was missing a leg, thus deeming him unfit for combat, and Carl, Beth and Judith were far too young, but Carol had _begged_ to join the battle; had begged Daryl to take her with them, so that she could fight alongside Rick and Merle and Glenn and Maggie and everyone else.

He hadn't let her, though. He _couldn't_ let her. He couldn't keep both eyes on her at the same time, and only one would hardly do. He wouldn't risk it. So he forced her to stay behind, and last he saw of her, she was on the verge of tears. She was petrified that he would once again fail to return with the rest of the group.

Then he glanced down at the little pup in his arms, who had drifted off to sleep with its teensy wet nose buried in his jacket, and thought of how happy Carol would be to see him - and then, the snoozing puppy in his arms. And he smiled, although just barely, and said,

"I know someone who's gonna _love _you."


	5. Tease

**Jesus Christ. After last night's episode, I feel like we need a bit of humor, no? **

Carol sat on the swing, gently rocking back and forth, the stiff, mold-flecked wood creaking under her weight. It hadn't supported a human body in quite some time.

A mug of tea warmed her hands, thin wisps of steam snaking up into the wintry air. She took a sip; rolled the flavor on her tongue. The tart lemon edge was blunted by the sugary decadence of the honey. Her lips curled into a small, content smile.

In the east, the sun was rising fast. Shadows were lifted and the moon vanished as the minutes trickled by. Beyond the bushy evergreens, the sky was stained pastel orange and pink. The land was showered in golden light, and the frost on the grass glittered away.

The sound of a screen door slamming severed her from her thoughts. Her head snapped back, only to see Daryl standing there, dressed in long sleeves and pants and thick leather hunting boots. His crossbow was slung over his shoulder.

For a second, he looked surprised to see her. Then he offered her a tiny nod as he made his way towards the steps leading off the porch. The wood groaned under his feet.

"Where're you goin'?" She asked, surprisingly perky. He glanced back at her for just a moment.

"Gonna take a piss." He answered bluntly. She gave a dry laugh.

"It'll jus' freeze in the air," she quipped before bringing the mug to her lips again. He didn't respond. She eyed him closely until he disappeared around the corner of the house. He didn't go far, though, because she could hear him as he relieved himself. She was torn between laughing and cringing.

"Was the crossbow really necessary," she called out, grinning, "if all you're doin' is peein'?"

From around the side of the house, Daryl fastened his zipper before heading back to the porch. Carol was now standing by the edge of the short flight of stairs, a playful glint in her blue eyes.

_Goddamn, _she was a tease.

He decided to turn her question around on her; show her that she was the only one capable of poking fun at someone else.

"Better than sittin' out here alone with nothin' but the clothes on my back to defend myself with." he retorted. "The hell would you do if you ran into a walker, huh? Strangle 'em with your scarf?"

"Oh, hush," she laughed, never missing a beat. "I'd obviously bash his skull in with my mug."

He cracked a tiny grin, and she couldn't help but feel slightly proud of herself. After all, it wasn't every day that Daryl Dixon smiled. But then her gaze flickered past him and up at the blushing sky. She inhaled deeply; let the crisp, fresh scent of frozen dew and pine fill her lungs.

It was going to be a good day, she thought. She just simply knew it would be.


	6. Nightmare

For several weeks now, Carol had been plagued by a constant slew of nightmares.

Sometimes, they were about Ed, battering her over and over in a blind, drunken rage. Other times they were about Sophia, stumbling out of the barn, eyes milky and lips curled back in a snarl. Occasionally they were about being trapped in a cell, limp and barely breathing. And several times they had been about trying to outrun a herd of walkers with legs that felt like lead.

But they were always so vivid that she would wake up with hot, salty tears streaming down her cheeks, or aching muscles, or a burning thirst, or the taste of blood imprinted on her tongue, and she would scarcely be able to distinguish those terribly nightly visions from reality.

So naturally, she and Daryl developed a routine for those instances rather quickly.

.:|:.

Her eyes snapped open, and she instinctively let out a sharp gasp. All she heard was her own pounding heartbeat. Her palms were slick with sweat.

She breathed heavily, glancing around the room, her eyes discovering nothing but more darkness. She was in a bed, that much was certain; she was wrapped in sticky sheets, and a lumpy mattress supported her body. But everything else was an eerie mystery.

She couldn't tell which way she was facing, or if she was staring up at a ceiling, or the open sky, or the lid of a coffin. She couldn't remember how she'd gotten wherever she was, or what she'd done the previous day.

But then she felt a familiar, strong arm wrap around her waist and draw her in close, and lucidity came rushing back to her in a crisp, refreshing wave.

Daryl hitched a leg around both of hers and before he knew it, she was curled up in his arms like a tiny kitten. But despite the solace she found in his embrace, her delicate frame trembled like a leaf, and she clung to him like she'd never clung to anyone before.

But Daryl didn't mind much. The rise and fall of her breast, her soft breath ghosting across his skin, the warmth of her flesh pressed against his...it all reminded him that she was alive; that they both were. And in the dark, stillness of their cell, he smiled.


End file.
